


Neatly Concise

by stardust_and_sunlight



Series: Flash Fiction February [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: BACK AT IT AGAIN, F/F, Flash Fiction, because i am a mess, flash fiction february, not all written in february, with my many short stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 05:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13920342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_and_sunlight/pseuds/stardust_and_sunlight
Summary: The twenty-eight tiny short stories I wrote for Flash Fiction February 2018, all in one place.





	1. Day 1: fruity, moon, witches quote

**Author's Note:**

> At the time of uploading these first few chapters, I've written nineteen out of twenty eight flash fictions. I'm working on it! I'm so busy!!!!  
> The title is very dramatic, because of who I am as a person.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Most books on witchcraft will tell you that witches work naked. This is because most books on witchcraft are written by men.’ – Good Omens, Pratchett and Gaimen.

The moon was full, but it was far too cold up this hill for dancing naked (although clothed dancing might be a good idea, to warm up). I huddled over the weak fire, glancing around. The others were late.

There was a thud, and a muttered curse, and I glanced around, hiding a smirk as I saw another witch extract herself from a tangled thorny bush, yanking her broomstick out after her.

She climbed to the top of the hill, slumping down cross-legged on the ground beside me, warming her hands over the fire.

“This is a shit fire, isn’t it,” she said, after a moment of silence, and I glowered at her.

“Well, I had to do it by hand, you know I’m no good at fire spells,” I said defensively, and she nodded in acknowledgement, pulling her wand out from her sleeve and poking it at the fire. There was a pop and a spark and the fire sputtered, suddenly bigger and much warmer.

“Give it more wood,” she said, and I grabbed some of the kindling I’d collected, feeding the fire gently. “That should do it,” she said smugly, and then turned to me. “Alright, get the tea on,” she said, and I sighed.

“You were supposed to bring the tea this week,” I snapped, exasperated.

“No, Annie was!” she said defensively.

“No, Annie can’t come this week, remember? She’s got that convention up north.”

“Oh.”

There was a beat of silence, and then she spoke again.

“So there isn’t anything?”

I rummaged in my bag. “There’s some biscuits that Mrs Potts made me, for helping with her sore legs. They’re strange, though, she puts all sorts of fruit in them.”

I handed one over, and we chewed them thoughtfully.

“Yep. Fruity,” she said, and I laughed despite myself.

Then there was another thud, and another curse, and we hurried over to help Faith out of the thorn bush, abandoning our biscuits gratefully.


	2. Day 2: armchair

I can still see him, sitting in the ratty armchair, his armchair. The squeaky, shiny leather, once black but now a dark grey, faded over the years. The tiny table next to the chair, with his crossword book and his fancy pen and his glass of water (always on a coaster, even though the table in question was stained and tacky). I can still see him taking off his chunky glasses and sitting them down on the arm of the chair, glaring at me when I said something daft, or talked over the football commentary. But he’s gone now.

And who knows where the armchair is.


	3. Day 3: disreputable, picture of ship

It hadn’t been the cleanest ship, hadn’t been the fastest or the nicest or the best. In fact, some would say it was downright disreputable. The rigging had been frayed, and the wheel always squeaked, and some of the doors were permanently wedged open… but it was _mine._ My ship, that I’d taken all over this beautiful, terrible world. My ship, that had been with me for years. My ship, that I’d lost due to my stupidity and my trust and my bloody inability to leave the girl I loved.

I’d loved her, and she’d betrayed me, and I’d lost my ship, and I’d lost her. Years had passed since then, but the ache hadn’t faded.

I had spent those years doing the best I could. It was hard, going from captain of a ship to just another pirate, and having to fight back men on every crew I joined, men who didn’t believe a woman could be a pirate. But I hadn’t become a captain by luck, and after I’d bested a few expert swordsmen, word had spread, of a captain without her ship.

I joined crews, and I worked hard, and I fought and bled, but I wasn’t ever a part of any of the crews I joined. Always separate, always alone, always aching.

And I kept looking. Looking for my ship, and for the girl I’d loved.


	4. Day 4: create, fire quote

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'If everyone fought fire with fire, the whole world would go up in smoke.' – Lemony Snicket

There are many things that can be created from fire. Swaths of soot left after a blaze. Smoke spiralling into the air, silhouetted against the sun, painting the sky with the dark against the light. What is charcoal if not charred remnants, used to draw, used for art? And even fire itself can be beautiful, blooming like a flower, orange and yellow. Even in its destruction it is beautiful, sweeping through wood and paper and forests and buildings, leaving barely anything unscathed.

And we fear it, as we should, keep it controlled in fireplaces and furnaces, with weak pathetic flames burning in lamps and on candles. But even with our precautions, sometimes it escapes, wreaks havoc, causes devastation and feeds like a living thing, breathes and grows and survives like a living thing.

But always, even in the aftermath, in the smouldering remains of what was once a whole house, a thriving woodland, you find the strangest things, untouched and unscarred. An intricate candlestick, on a carved marble fireplace. An iron-wrought bench, inscriptions painstakingly worked into the back.

You never know what you will find, when you put out fires. You never know what will have destroyed, and you never know what will have been left for you to discover.


	5. Day 5: mirror

I have a weird relationship with mirrors. Not because I’m insecure or because I don’t like my face (although that is also true). No, my issues with mirrors more come from the simple fact that whenever I look in one, I don’t just see myself. I see ghosts.

Or at least I think that’s what they are- I don’t really have any other explanation, though I do acknowledge that that is ridiculous. Ghosts aren’t real, you might be saying, and six months ago, I’d have agreed with you.

But now…well. The ghosts I see aren’t always the same, although some are there often enough that I recognise them. It doesn’t seem to depend on the room, or the building, or the specific mirror. Some ghosts, I only see on Tuesdays, or at weekends, or when I’m wearing green. (Okay, the last one is made up. But it makes just as much sense as everything else.)

The ghosts never do or say anything, they just stand there. I can’t see them around me, only in the reflection. They don’t seem to want to harm me. They’re just there.

I just try and avoid mirrors, and hope this isn’t some strange omen.


	6. Day 6: queen

She’d fought for the throne, and she would hold onto it, through anything.

She’d fought and killed, her sword stained red, blood in the streets, but she didn’t regret it. She’d done it for the people, and they were better off, and they loved her, despite the crimes she’d committed that had gotten her to where she was.

And even once the king had fallen, her sword piercing his throat, his crown rolling on the stones, she’d still fought. Fought those who said she couldn’t do it, those who said she didn’t deserve it. Fought them with words, without bloodshed, learning that in politics, only your voice and your wit should be sharp.

She’d fought for reform and for change and for the good of the people. And she would never stop fighting, if that’s what it took. She’d fight invasion, she’d fight a war on her own if she had to.

She’d fought for the throne, and she would hold onto it.

Through anything.


	7. Day 7: clatter, no-one will be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘When everyone’s super… no-one will be.’ –Syndrome, The Incredibles

What good were superpowers when everyone had them? Sometimes, she watched old superhero movies, and saw how the superpowered characters were the stars, how they were unique and idolised. The rare ones nowadays were those without powers, and they certainly weren’t idolised- they were shunned, hated, pushed away. They often lived apart from the rest of the society, ostracised, working the jobs that no-one else would. It was unfair, but to most people that was simply how the world worked.

Lost in thought, she didn’t notice as the plate she was washing slipped from her grasp, landing with a splash and a clatter. She jumped, looking around guiltily, but she was alone.

She picked up the plate, focusing on her task. What had she even been thinking about? Well, whatever it was, it didn’t matter.


	8. Day 8: strong

_“Be strong.”_

She could hear the voice in her head, saying those two words, _be strong,_ the last thing she’d ever heard the girl say. As they’d been dragged apart, the other girl hadn’t screamed, hadn’t cried, had simply looked her dead in the eye and told her to _be strong_.

And so she tried. She held her head high, and she wiped away her tears, and when she saw an opening, she ran for her life, ran faster than she’d ever run before.

_“Be strong.”_

She kept her head down, worked hard, listened out for any word, any news. She smiled and laughed and befriended people and she tried so hard to be strong.

_“Be strong.”_

She went to the gym, went running, punched a bag. Mental strength could come from physical strength, and as her muscles strengthened and she ran faster and punched harder, she _felt_ strong.

_“Be strong.”_

She’d been told to be strong. And so she was.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/holIyshort) \- come and say hi!


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